Shiver Me Timbers
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She used to dream of running away to sea, and now she's spending many of her nights on a pirate ship, in the company of a pirate captain. If she wasn't used to her life being one surreal moment after another, she'd be tempted to pinch herself. Set vaguely in the future, no Big Bad to fight, just finding a good moment.


She loves sleeping aboard the Jolly Roger.

The gentle rocking as the tide ebbs and flows, the ancient creaking of wood (_enchanted wood, darling_, as Killian likes to remind her), the scratch of the clean but worn linen sheets against her bare skin.

When she was a child, she used to dream of running away to sea. All those drawings she'd done as a child, the ones that Ingrid had kept, even the ones she didn't remember painting. Almost every single one of them is filled with the blue of the ocean and the yellow of the sun, an endless horizon of possibility.

She used to dream of running away to sea, and now she's spending many of her nights on a pirate ship, in the company of a pirate captain. If she wasn't used to her life being one surreal moment after another, she'd be tempted to pinch herself.

She loves sleeping with the Jolly Roger's captain, too.

It had been a long time since she'd shared a bed with anyone for more than a few hours. (She hadn't been exaggerating all those months ago when she'd told Mary Margaret that one night was usually all she allowed anyone). At first, she'd been worried that they'd find themselves in a tussle of pointed elbows and yanked hair and blanket stealing.

She needn't have worried, because Killian turned out to as compatible in the sleeping department as any other bedroom activities. The nights she's spent in the Captain's quarters have been some of the most restful she can remember, despite the narrow bed and the early morning shrieking of seagulls and the constant background noise that only the sea can provide.

(She knows he's happiest when she's here with him, too.)

When it's cold, and the wind is buffeting the tiny windows of the Captain's quarters, the thick quilts and shared body heat are more than enough to keep the winter chill at bay.

Winter has long gone, though. She's not sure how it happened, but it's now July, and tonight, it's hot, almost stuffy, and she finds herself vaguely yearning for her bedroom at the loft. Or a fan. Or electricity. Or, if she's completely honest, a bigger bed.

She shifts restlessly, but there's no cool spot to be found. The skimpy cotton underwear she's wearing may as well be a down-filled coat. Swiping her hand across her chest, her palm comes away damp with sweat, and she wrinkles her nose. _Nice. _Her hair feels damp and heavy, even in its braid, and she can't help thinking of her mother's dark bob with a mild case of pixie-cut envy.

She kicks the sheet away from her legs and the man beside her stirs, his hand smoothing a lazy path down her arm. "You alright there, love?"

"It's hot."

"Aye, it's a warm night, to be sure." Turning onto his side to face her, he slips his hand beneath the sheets, his arm coming to rest heavily around her waist. The feel of his warm skin against hers is usually something she loves but tonight, the last thing she needs is to snuggle with a human furnace, even one as sinfully attractive as Killian Jones.

(Even one who'ssleeping naked after fucking her into a quivering mess a few hours earlier, the press of his bare skin against hers reminding her that there are other things she could be doing rather than lying awake grumbling about the heat.)

Right now, though, she's overtired and sweaty and not in the mood for a hot-blooded pirate invading her personal space right now. Sliding her own hand beneath the sheets, she unceremoniously picks up his arm and removes it from her waist, huffing loudly under her breath. "It's too hot."

He huffs out a loud breath of his own, then grips the sheet and whips it back, exposing them both to the oppressive night air. "If you're too hot to sleep, Swan, perhaps I could provide some other distraction?" His voice is thick with sleepy optimism, his tone almost as sultry as the hand skimming up her thigh, roughened fingertips dancing over the damp cotton between her legs. "Something to take your mind off the sudden advent of summer?"

A thick beat of desire pulses between her thighs (it would have to be raining fireballs for her body not to respond to his touch, she thinks) but she's not sure she's got the energy, not a second time. "Sorry, buddy, but it's too hot for _anything._"

He shifts in the darkness beside her, his hand still between her legs, his thumb gently brushing over a particular spot he knows damned well has the power to overrule any argument her brain might try to impose. "Perhaps some night air is in order."

She covers his hand with hers, meaning to pull it away, but she does nothing of the sort. She finds herself clutching at his wrist as he presses his knuckle hard against her, the thin cotton aiding the friction against the heated flesh between her legs. _Jesus. _Swallowing hard, she tries to speak as though she's not on the brink of coming from that simple touch alone. "We're _not_sleeping above deck. This town's already gotten enough gossip fodder out of us without everyone seeing your naked ass in dawn's early light."

"Hush, love." He touches her again, as relentless as he is gentle, and she gasps, giving herself over to the sudden pulse of thick, warm pleasure that swells and tightens beneath his touch. It's a soft, quiet thing, leaving her wilted and sweating and _wanting._ Somewhere in the darkness, she hears him chuckle. "Come along, Swan. I have just the thing to cool you down."

* * *

After he drops one of his clean but worn black shirts over her head, she comes with him readily enough. Once they're above deck, she glances down at her bare legs and feet, then casts a gimlet eye at his hastily donned cotton trousers. "We're not exactly dressed for a midnight stroll, Killian."

"Don't fret." Threading his fingers through hers, he leads her to the starboard side of his ship. It's decidedly cooler above deck, but a bead of sweat still trickles the length of his spine. "We won't be putting a foot on dry land this evening."

When they reach the bulwark, he puts his hand on the curve of the wooden ladder that drops down to the waterline, and her eyes widen in comprehension (and more than a little panic). "Seriously?"

He grins, wishing he had thought to grab her fancy phone to take a photograph of her expression. "Nothing like a midnight dip to cool a man's heated bones, Swan." He allows himself a chivalrous leer at the hollow between her breasts, delightfully showcased by the unfastened laces of his shirt. "Or a woman's, for that matter."

She hesitates, even though he knows her skin is as flushed and sticky as his. "I'm not a fan of swimming in my underwear."

"That's fine with me." He grins at her, feeling as though his heart is fit to burst with the love of her. The moon is high in the night sky, turning her hair and skin to burnished gold and ivory, her eyes to emeralds. "Naked works just as well, I believe."

She delivers a stinging slap to his bicep, then pulls her shirt up and over her head in one graceful movement. "Remind me to explain wet t-shirt competitions to you some time." She strips off her bra (a wonderfully uncomplicated word, that one), holding his gaze with hers as she drops it on the deck at his feet. She puts her hands on the bulwark, then swings one long leg over the side of the Jolly, dressed in nothing but more than a tiny scrap of bright green fabric that barely covers her arse. "Last one in's a rotten egg." With this incomprehensible statement, he finds himself staring at empty air as she drops to the water below with a splash and a shriek of laughter.

Admiration battles with lust for prime position before he is overcome by a delightful combination of the two. _Stars above, what a woman._

Uncaring of Emma's earlier concerns about the town seeing his naked arse, he strips off his loose trousers and follows her into the water. Given his hook is sitting on the table in his quarters, he simply dives from the side of the Jolly rather than navigate that wretched ladder. The water is cold and clear, and he gasps at the feel of it on his heated skin as he breaks the surface of the harbour. "Bloody hell!"

Suddenly, there's a golden haired nymph treading water before him, her arms moving in lazy circles. "Don't tell me Captain Hook's afraid of a little cold water." She blinks at him, her dark eyelashes beaded with moisture, her eyes sparkling as she swims backwards, putting some distance between them. "You hear so many stories about what cold water can do to a man's, uh, _bones._"

She might be a strong swimmer, but he's spent twice as much time on the high seas as he has on land, and it's with nary a splash that he closes the distance between them. Wrapping his hand around her wrist, he tugs her towards him. She resists briefly, her teeth flashing white against her rose pink lips, then she yields, letting her tow her through the water towards him until her legs brush against his. "My bones are all in perfect working order, darling," he mutters, choking back a groan as her thigh brushes against his cock, an accidental contact he's quite certain is no accident.

She raises her eyebrows at him, her lips curving in a slow smile of promise that has him hard and aching and wanting in the space of a heartbeat. "So I see."

She's still smiling when he kisses her, her lips are cool and salt-tinged, the brush of her puckered nipples against his chest unbearably erotic. He's long dreamed of having her this way, buffeted by the ocean, the sea itself setting a rhythm as old as time itself, the heat of her swallowing him whole, keeping him anchored where he once was so very adrift.

He draws her through the water until his back is against the Jolly's ladder, the rungs pressing against his spine. The faintest hint of phosphorescence sparkles atop the water lapping at the hull of his ship, glowing green and blue, like the most precious of opals. It pales in comparison to the golden sheen of Emma's hair as it streams through the water behind her. "You'd make quite the siren, love."

She grips the ladder with her left hand, the other trailing from his sternum to his belly, then lower. With her feet braced on the bottom rung, she's effectively pinned him in place, and he couldn't be happier. "Not a mermaid?"

The mock disappointment in her tone has him grinning, feeling as giddy as a cabin boy on his first shore leave. "Well, the tail would be an intriguing change, I suppose." Tucking his left wrist under her arse, he runs his hand up her thigh, her skin slippery in the cool water. "I _would_ miss these glorious legs of yours, I must admit."

She kisses the corner of his mouth, then nips at his jaw, her tongue hot on his skin. "Not a fin man, then?"

"Well, there are _other_ things I'd miss." Effortlessly pushing aside the sodden material of her underwear, he slides one finger into the tight heat of her quim, his own blood burning at the desperate sound she makes.

"_Fuck_." She barely bites out the word before she's kissing him again, her mouth hot on his, her hand cold but sure as it curls around his aching cock. He grips her hip as she lifts herself just enough to take the tip of him inside her, the ocean's buoyancy aiding her efforts. His spine almost snapping with the effort of not thrusting into her, he presses his forehead against hers, her name burning in his throat.

"_Emma_."

In answer to his unspoken plea, she sinks onto him in a slow, thick slide of hot flesh and cool water, the contrast making him suck in a sharp breath. Her breath mingles with his, her lips a mere whisper from his own, his body buried deep inside hers as the ocean laps at their skin. A sigh shudders through her, her right hand slipping between their bodies to touch the place where they're joined, a fiery heat beneath the cool depths. "God, I love you."

The words fall from her lips to his, and he catches them on his tongue, cupping the back of her head in his hand as he plunders her mouth, his cock pulsing heavy and full as she presses her hips downwards again and again. It's a slow, steady dance, the kind that burns even the dampest of kindling, and he tastes the gasps of pleasure on her tongue long before the tight clasp of her body begins to flutter around him.

She throws back her head when she reaches her peak, a wild thing in the moonlight, riding him hard. Her breasts rise out of the water, pale and glowing, her cry of completion sending him crashing after her. When he comes, he mouths her name against her throat, a silent litany of adoration until the words become whole, tumbling from his lips.

_And I love you, Swan, so very much._

For a long moment, the only sounds are the harsh rise and fall of their breathing and the gentle slap of the ocean against the hull of his ship. Finally, she starts to laugh, amusement rippling through her as she slumps against him, her feet still braced on the bottom rung of the ladder. "I guess we can cross _sex in public_ off the list now."

He's utterly spent, his cock slipping softly from the embrace of her body, but her words have his pulse stuttering anew. "There's a list?"

She laughs again, her teeth bumping gently against his as she kisses him, her mouth soft and lazy. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She's going to be the bloody death of him.

He can't wait.

He sends her up the ladder first, giving her a boost from below, his hand firm on one shapely buttock as he pushes her upwards.

(His hand slips once or twice, but he's only human.)

His whole body is pleasantly aching by the time he clambers over the side of the deck, and he grins at the sight of Emma leaning against the bulwark, squeezing water out of the long tail of her braid. The shirt he'd put on her earlier is draped over her shoulder, as though pulling it over her head requires far more energy than she currently possesses. Picking up his crumpled trousers from the planks at his feet, he smiles at her. "Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you." She holds out her hand, and he lets himself be lured to his chambers by a golden-haired, half-naked siren. She's yawning as she flicks her hand towards the candles on his desk, her light magic rippling through the air. A dozen flames flicker into life, illuminating the room to keep them from tripping over their weary feet. After stripping off her soaked underpants, she tosses them aside and climbs into bed.

She's asleep before he's even had the chance to offer her a towel for her hair.

Smiling, he snuffs out the candles and climbs into the narrow bed beside her. He presses a lingering kiss to her shoulder, tasting salt and the faintest trace of her perfume, the soft skin beneath his lips now as cool as the ocean gently cradling his ship.

(It's a good day to be a pirate.)


End file.
